


Ink bleeds between the pages

by ScalesCastOfIron



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Angst, Baking, Duelling, Fluff, I Love You, Multi, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Table Sex, Terrible home cooking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScalesCastOfIron/pseuds/ScalesCastOfIron
Summary: What if the threads of each love story tangled together?A series of one-shots where one event from each romance path happens to another love interest. Tags and pairings to be updated with each chapter.Ch 1: Solas/F!LavellanCh 2: Blackwall/F!AdaarCh 3: Cassandra/M!LavellanCh 4: Sera/F!CadashCh 5: Josephine/M!AdaarCh 6: Cullen/F!TrevelyanCh 7: Dorian/M!Trevelyan
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Inquisitor, Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Female Adaar/Blackwall | Thom Rainier, Female Cadash/Sera (Dragon Age), Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor/Sera (Dragon Age), Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Male Adaar/Josephine Montilyet, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Josephine Montilyet, Male Lavellan/Cassandra Pentaghast
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	1. The midnight runaway

Solas had stayed too long. 

He’d planned on hovering at the edges of this Inquisition, steering it with a hand unseen. A nudge, and a whisper. Providing just enough of himself to bring down this imposter, and to reclaim what was his. Holding his truth to his chest, closing his shell, and letting it wash around him until the time came to strike.

He hadn’t counted on her.

He’d scoffed at the idea at first, of course. Another Dalish child of the forest, come to lecture him about the truth of his people, their histories. What it meant to be elvhen, splintered and shattered from lips that wore slave marks with pride. The fall of his people wasn’t the tragedy, it was the pieces that remained, jagged and broken beyond recognition.

And at first, he thought she’d come to spar, too. He’d knocked back every parry, countered with as much truth as he could share. Most Dalish he’d met would have responded with defiance, anger, or rejection. But she’d listened. Respected, even. But also challenged, questioned. Wanted to learn, without losing her steel. What he thought had been a duel had become a dance. Each step, each note of the music carried them onward, circling round each other, drawing ever closer. 

He couldn’t say when he’d fallen. Couldn’t pinpoint the moment she’d gone from a tool, to a curiousity, to an ally, to a friend, to a piece of his heart he couldn’t bear to rip away. His vhenan, etched into his soul like valasslin. She had claimed him as her own.

It wasn’t the falling that scared him. It was whether he would recognise the jagged and broken pieces of himself left behind. 

_________

He had taken her that night. Soft and slow at first, teasing, trying to commit every inch of her into his memory, every touch searing through his skin like lightning. Then, when the fire burned too bright, fast and hard, searing between them until she screamed his name, the waves rolling over both of them, dragging him under.

Afterwards, as she lies in his arms, he wishes he could paint this moment. Preserve it in amber, keep it safe by his side. Keep her safe, be her shield from Corypheus, and the coming storm. Be the wolf at her side, and tear out the throats of any who would cause her harm.

Would she be safe?

Would she stay? 

Would she ever trust him, once she knew what he was? Could any First of her clan willingly lie in the embrace of the Dread Wolf, without holding her breath for the moment the jaws clamped shut?

As the cold night air draws in, he pulls her closer, tracing the freckles on her back with his fingertips as she curls into his chest. Her eyes meet his, and his heart stops again, lost in their dark pools. With a smile, he leans down, lips meeting her forehead.

_‘Ar lath ma, vhenan.’_

He waits until her breathing slows to a gentle rhythm, eyelids fluttering softly, heart beating against his. He knows this will be the moment seared through him the strongest; her gentleness, her peace. He has to leave now, before their roots bind too tight to ever escape.

Softly, gently, he moves her arms away, pausing to listen to her breath, waiting for each beat. He dresses quickly, breath held, taking just what he needs. 

He daren’t stay close. That redhaired Chantry sister’s ravens would find him soon enough. And then what? Either he fakes a story, or runs further. Either way, his hand is shown, and the knife is pressed that little piece farther through her heart. Far better if she just thinks he is gone. 

He needed agents. Good men and women, elves who would be sympathetic to his cause. Who could believe in his dream for a better world for all of their people. 

And for her, one day. The one piece of starlight, guiding him as he gathers his things.

He would shadow Corypheus, doing what he can from the shadows to aid the Inquisition’s cause. Have his agents stay close to protect her. Watch over her from the Fade unseen, although he wonders if this is for her sake or his own. And one day, meet her anew in the new world, where she can shine as brightly as she deserves. The hope burns in him, but he dares not believe she will forgive him.

With one smooth motion, he pulls his pack on, lifting the hood of his travelling cloak to cover his head. His fingers find the jawbone around his throat, and he unties it, gently tugging at the strings until they slide free.

Everything in his soul screams at him to take her hand again, to hold it to his face, to promise to remain at her side. Instead, he lifts the jawbone to his lips, then tucks it into the sheets, where her hand could find it in the morning, once he was far enough away.

_  
Ar lasa mala revas. Ir abelas, ma vhenan._

_I am sorry, my heart._


	2. The desk

Pissing piece of Orlesian crap. 

Thom gave the pile of wood a small kick. It didn’t send anything flying dramatically as he’d hoped, but at least it made him feel better.

Some noble had shipped it over from Val Royeaux shortly after Halamshiral. _For The Lady Inquisitor, as a symbol of our regard,_ or some such platitudes. It was elegant, sure, with fine carved feet in the shape of claws and bone inlaid. The kind of thing some delicate fading flower of the Empress’s court would write love notes on, before having a servant whipped for burning the bread. Certainly not designed with a Qunari in mind. He’d seen enough of The Game to suspect that was not an oversight.

It had almost worked, at first. He’d caught Herah at work a few times, crouched over it, legs folded under, or knees scraping the underside of the hard wooden topper. He and Sera had pinched a couple of armfuls of books from the library, wedging them under the legs to raise it, and carted off a chair from the tavern to replace the spindly stool. Hardly the best solution, but enough to work around.

The final straw had been the night before. He’d gone to see Herah late in her quarters. Taken a bottle of wine, had a glass each as she finished up reading over some reports, and, ahem…

It was very clear to him now that this desk had not been designed to hold a Qunari warrior. He gave the pile of wood another kick at that, ignoring the bolt of pain shooting through his toe.

She’d laughed it off, of course. Said that it served her right for reading that Seeker’s copy of Swords and Shields. But he’d seen something flicker across her expression. Just another reminder that the world she was in, the role she was in, was designed for someone Not Like Her.

And that settled it. Maker take this cursed, delicate, piece of frippery. His warrior queen would have a desk worthy of her. Beautiful and strong, with bold lines, fitted and designed around her Qunari form.

No pile of firewood with pretensions of grandeur would ever make his beloved feel unworthy of being wooed like the heroine of a great romantic novel.

And no.  
He wasn’t taking this personally.  
Not at all.

_________

First things first: he needed wood. And plenty of it.

He never thought he’d long for Haven, but he had to admit that the forests had been incredibly useful. Here on this bare mountainside, he had nothing but snow. 

So, he needed to buy wood. He had the coin, but unfortunately no way to spend it without going through the high-ups. Not exactly many lumber salesmen rolling through these parts.

He couldn’t ask Herah. Would ruin the surprise rather. He daren’t admit to Josie the fate of the Orlesian original. And, quite frankly, Leliana terrified him. As much as he respected her, one didn’t walk into a lions’ den to ask for a paw print on the paperwork.

And so that left -

‘Snow, pouring. Cold bites. Like lyrium, it’s in the skin, it’s burning, and you can’t itch it away.’

A voice drew him out from his musings, to the boy perched in the rafters. Always had been an odd bird, he supposed.

‘But I have arms. Birds don’t. Wings, for swooping. I don’t swoop.’

The boy’s face dropped. Thom motioned him down, thinking.

‘No, that’s not… cold? Who’s cold?’

‘Furs, wrapping round. They work in the day, but at night, the wind gets into him. He says he doesn’t mind, they need it more, a roof for four over half for him.’

The boy paused, eyes meeting his expectantly.

‘So…. a roof? For… furs… the Commander?’

He beamed, nodding.

‘They can see me, now. And I tried talking to the wood. It wouldn’t move. Varric said I needed to give him a drink because of that.’

‘So, I fix the hole in the roof and - ‘ 

‘It appears here, not like I make it, but like a disguise. Half hides the other.’

Of course, when he spoke to the commander the next morning, he had quite a few more questions. But the boy had been right, and within two weeks, he had the lumber, steel, and nails to fix up the hole, with enough left over for him to get to work.

________

It was a decent desk, if he did say so himself. 

Larger than average, of course. Nice thick legs, discreetly reinforced with steel at the joins, then sanded down to a smooth finish. As a final touch, he and Sera had sketched out wildflowers along its borders, and he’d carved them out with a chisel. (He wasn’t surprised that she’d slipped a few cocks in there, but he washed them off all the same. Even the one with eyelashes and butterfly wings.)

All that was needed now was testing.

Awkwardly, feeling the eyes of a thousand imagined faces boring into him, he clambered onto the desk, feet inches off the floor, legs hanging down. So far, so good. He placed his hands down, bouncing his weight around, swinging this way and that.

The desk didn’t so much as wobble. 

He let out a sigh of relief. It was stable, at least. Cleared the first hurdle. But he felt the resolve tighten within him. This was a gift. It had to be perfect.

_________

‘Alright, where is it?’

He motioned Bull towards the desk, as his young lieutenant moved to stand next to him, arms folded, one eyebrow raised.

‘So… just sit on it?’

He nodded, and the Qunari’s grin widened.

‘But just to check, you are definitely fucking the Boss on this? Right, big guy? Or if not, daaaaamn do I have some ideas for you…’

By his side, the lieutenant gives a loud sigh.

‘For the last time Chief, not everyone is-‘

Sighing, he placed one hand on the lad’s shoulder.

‘It’s ok, lad. It’s -‘

‘I KNEW IT!’

With a spring, the qunari propelled himself onto the desk, raising himself to full height, thrusting in the air. Through the fingers covering his face, Thom could at least note, to his relief, that his woodwork had held.

‘Krem, I need me one of these! You can do one for me right, big guy? Might need a couple of -‘

‘CHIEF, FOR THE LOVE OF -‘

‘Is everything alright in here? Bull, is that you?’

Herah’s voice cut through the air. To his left, Bull’s lieutenant had his head in his hands. He turned, clearing his throat with a cough. Behind him, he felt a soft thud which, Maker willing, must have been the Bull dismounting.

‘I… well…’

He gestured wildly behind him, as the Bull spread his arms like a salesman showing off his latest wares, to a loud sigh from the lad.

‘For you, my lady.’

She followed his gaze, her long fingers running across the smooth surface, tracing the flowers. Her eyes met his, sparkling with something.

‘It’s beautiful.’

He took her hands in his, raising them to his lips.

‘It’s the second most beautiful thing in this room, my lady.’

Behind him, he could hear the Bull’s voice, carrying across the courtyard with his footsteps.

‘Not even third? Damn big guy, I thought we - ‘

‘DAMNIT CHIEF, EVERY TIME -‘

‘Hey, come on, he’s definitely gonna make me one of - did you -‘

‘TAVERN. NOW.’

He could see the blush rising to Herah’s cheeks, and the crinkle at the corner of her eyes as she laughed, before she caught his eye with a grin. 

‘Shall we get this upstairs?’

 _Whatever that dwarf was charging for those books_ , he pondered. _Worth it._


	3. The duel

‘Take that back!’

Mahanon snarled at Varric, raising his fist in the air, jaw rigid to suppress a laugh.

‘That book is trash! You and I both know it! Me more than most, given I wrote the damn thing.’

The elf folded his arms, jerking his head away with a theatrical flounce. 

‘You DARE to question the taste of my beloved?’

‘Well, she picked you for one…’

_Honestly,_ thought Cassandra, shaking her head and closing her eyes slightly, _interrogations were easier than this_.

‘An OUTRAGE! Such dishonour must be challenged! A duel!’

He dropped his pack to the ground, poring through, tossing items carelessly to one side.

‘Goblet… waterskin… jar of...bees?... aha!’

Striding forward, he stopped suddenly, tossing something into the dwarf’s face, then flinging his arms upwards like an amateur actor cursing the Maker.

‘I… challenge you… TO A DUEL!’

The dwarf yelped slightly in surprise, the noise turning into a laugh.

‘You do realise that’s a sock, right? You’re supposed to use a glove. And you’re supposed to slap it, not throw it.’

‘Technicalities.’

Cassandra folded her arms, cursing slightly under her breath. The elf caught her eye, raising one hand towards her.

‘This is for you, my love!’

She sighed, and turned to move on.

A soft voice came from behind her. The spirit boy, closer than she’d expected.

‘It’s alright, Seeker. They just look angry, but they’re playing, really. They’re not angry, I can feel it.’

‘ _Thank you, Cole. That is news to me._ ’

She suspected that the sarcasm would be lost on the boy, unless Varric’s lessons on humour had picked up of late.

Mahanon seemed to be climbing a tree now, hacking away at branches with a knife of some description.

‘Will this one do?’

‘Oh, no, no no. For duelling, you want one straighter. I’m pretty sure snapping your weapon counts as a disqualification.’

With a loud crash, the Inquisitor lopped a few branches off, landing next to them with surprising grace. She’d often found herself caught, lost in the fluid movements he made, forgetting the eyes on both of them.

After she lost Gaylan, she’d thought her heart had turned to stone. She’d driven herself forward with fire and fury. Tried to become the weapon to strike back, sharp and strong. Tried to forget about the wielder.

Varric had told her that it would take an ice pick to tear down the walls she’d built around herself. And she’d believed it was true. She would defend against every warrior, or she could crumble. 

But Mahanon was no warrior. _Thank the Maker,_ she chuckled silently, watching him flail what looked like half a tree in the dwarf’s face, as several pine cones hit the floor and skittered away.

This was just typical of him. At first she’d thought he was mocking her. Thumbing his nose, and laughing at the Inquisition, the Chantry, everything she held dear. But then she’d seen him, and that strange Tevinter mage, firing off taunts and batting them away over ale and laughter in the tavern. Heard him and Varric, cursing the Breach after one particularly unpleasant rift. Listened. Caught herself smiling at his flowery speeches and deliberately overblown posturing, despite herself.

The fire in Mahanon wasn’t there to burn her alive, but to bring light, and heat. He’d not tried to tear down the walls around her, but he’d woken the spark of life within her. And with that, whatever stone there was had started to crumble.

With a loud crash, the dwarf swept his branch around, knocking the Inquisitor off his feet. The elf yelped slightly, dropping his branch and flinging one arm across his face.

‘I am defeated! You cur! You scoundrel!’

Varric laughed, tossing his stick behind his back and offering an arm.

‘Think that means the drinks are on you, next time…’

Mahanon took his arm, rising, brushing himself down. 

‘Only if my lady feels her honour is sufficiently defended….?’

He bowed, giving her a small wink, and a wicked grin.

Closing the gap, she reached forward, fingers pulling a few twigs out of his hair.

‘I must insist we debrief first, of course.’

‘Of course, my love.’

He took her fingers, gently raising them to his lips, flashing that wicked smile at her once more.

_‘Debrief.’_


	4. The sending crystal

‘Nuh-uh. Nope. Not happening.’

Sera folded her arms, swivelling in her seat, diverting her eyes from the small, unassuming crystal on her table.

‘Any reason? Or just, _nope?_ ’

She knew Malika would be smiling. That was The Voice Malika Uses When She’s Smiling. But that was, VERY MUCH, Not The Point.

‘It’s creepy magic shite, innit? I don’t want it _lurking_ at me, do I? If I touch it, I’d grow an extra arm or some shite like that.’

‘I carried it here, no problems. Check if you like, still just the two…’

She’d take her up on that. Later.

‘Yeah, but you’re a dwarf! Probably can’t touch you! I touch that, I go all elfy. Like Solas.’

‘I’d still love you. Even if you looked like Solas. You’d still beat him in the arse department. Just promise me you’ll bathe more often than him.’

She felt a giggle creeping up out of her throat. Stupid laugh. Gonna betray her.

‘What is it, anyway?’

Malika leaned forward, gently lifting the small rock, and turning it this way and that, letting the light catch it.

‘This? Oh, a little thing Dorian called a Sending Crystal. You have one, and I have one. You wanna talk to me? You talk into it. And then I talk back. Like I’m in the room. But without such a great view….’

‘Shut it, you…’

It had been okay, at first. The Inquisitor would leave for weeks at a time, on Super Important Official Business. It was dull, sure. Time to write to the Jennies. Practice with her bow and knives. Climb onto Beardy’s stable roof twice a day, feed the magpies, and wait and see if any of the bird army tried to pinch his screws and shite the next time he did his woodwork. The usual. Pass the time til the next time she was needed to come punch Coryphy-shite in his ballsack.

But then The Inquisitor had become Malika. Inky. Then _her_ Inky. 

Waiting hurt, now. 

‘Still don’t wannit in here. What if it does something at night, yeah? Weird, creepy shite. Don’t wannit watching me, neither.’

Malika rolled it between her fingers, clicking her tongue slightly. 

‘Tell you what…. how about I leave this with Dagna down in the undercroft? Let her study it, til you wanna give it a whirl?’

Sera folded her arms.

‘ _If._ ’

‘ _If,_ then. Dagna’s been nagging me to get some more toys in anyway, this ought to keep her busy for a while.’

‘Good.’

***

Inky was supposed to be back by now.

Malika had left two weeks ago. Quick Excursion To Val Royeaux, she’d said. Boring Political Stuff With Nobs, she’d said.

Sera would give her an earful when she got back. Something about Keeping To Your Word. And definitely not Something About Making Your Girlfriend Sick With Worry.

She’d give her that earful. Definitely. She couldn’t look into the gaping, screaming void of what would happen if she never could.

She spent that afternoon curled up on her couch in the tavern, reading…. something. Something great. And definitely not watching out of the window, listening for hooves. Sera’s room got the best light in Skyhold, and everything else was mere coincidence.

‘Sera! Miss Sera, are you in there?’

A high, perky voice drew her back to land with a start. 

‘Who’sat?’

‘It’s me, Dagna! Erm, well hello!’

‘What’dyou want?’

She heard some shuffling behind her door, and felt the chasm in her chest start to burn.

‘Something’s happened to Inky, hasn’t it?’

‘No! No, nothing like that, no!’

Still chipper. Still bouncy. People didn’t lie with bouncy, not like that. Still, the ache burned.

‘She’s talking on the Sending Crystal, wanted to say hello! Asked if I could come get you, you see.’

Weird magic.  
Weird Crystal Tevinter Magic Shite.  
Weird Crystal Tevinter Magic Shite, _For Malika._

***

The Undercroft was colder than she’d expected. All grey and weapony. Sera wondered why Beardy hadn’t moved in here.

‘I hear footsteps! Sera, you there?’

Malika’s voice echoed at her from the back of the cavern. Sera closed her eyes, and let herself follow.

‘Inky! I can hear you!’

Maker, it was good to hear that woman laugh again.

‘Yeah, I told you this would work!’

‘Yeah yeah, so you were right. Not grown another arm or anything, right?’

‘Why, wanna check?’

The chasm in her heart shrivelled. Filled with something else. 

‘Oh, you bet I do. Checking places…’

Another voice from the crystal. Further away, this time. A deep, resigned sigh.

‘If you’ll excuse me, my dear Inquisitor, I must go and pretend that _anything else_ is happening.’

Sera snorted. 

‘LOVE YOU TOO, VIVVIE!’

She could hear Malika chuckle. Thank The Maker for the Voice Malika Uses When She’s Smiling.

‘Don’t mind her, Sera. We’ve been stuck in a bog for a week, got tangled up with some Venatori on the way home. Apparently, _someone_ didn’t pack appropriately for this.’

The knot tightened, twisted.

‘What’s happened? Are you okay? It’s the nobs, innit?’

‘No! No, nothing like that. Just a delay, that’s all. And that’s why I wanted to check in.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I miss you, Sera. Didn’t want you to worry.’

She felt the knot go slack.

‘Missed you too, Inky. Come home soon, yeah?’

***

‘So, where’ve you been today then?’

Sera kicked her feet up on her couch, holding the crystal up to watch the evening light glint off its facets.

‘Chasing down Darkspawn, in theory. Locals saw them hanging round the caves by the sea.’

‘And… not in theory?’

‘Bull got a fish stuck in his trousers somehow, and I’m pretty sure the Battle Nug’s allergic to seaweed.’

Bull’s voice came booming from somewhere in the distance.

‘Oh come on, boss. We all know that wasn’t a fish.’

Another voice, dry and clipped.

‘Say nothing, you’ll only encourage him.’

‘That wasn’t what you said last night….’

Whatever scuffling broke out in the background was interrupted by Malika’s laugh. The laughter that said, Malika Is Smiling, And Everything Is Going To Be Alright.

Sometimes chasms become fires. And sometimes they become starlight.

‘Hey, Inky?’

‘Yeah?’

How to put it in words? To turn a thousand twirling colours and fires into something she could say?

‘I love you, Inky.’

‘I love you too, Sera.’


	5. The interruption

_“We did it! I can’t believe we just did that!”_

_Josephine leans heavily on the balcony railings, panting from the run, suppressing a laugh. Below, the ball continues, with masked faces twirling to the sound of strings._

_“And why wouldn’t we, my love?”_

_Etienne cups his hand over her face, drawing her chin upwards. She feels her cheeks flush, the heat rising up within her._

_“And now what?_

_He leans in, breath warm against her skin, until she feels his lips brushing lightly against her ear._

_“I am sorry, my dove. Nothing personal.”_

_Something hits her suddenly, hard, at the back of her knee. She stumbles forward, reaching out to catch him, but finding only air. She lands heavily, the pain searing through her outstretched arms on cold stone._

_He is gone. She tries to steady herself, to sit up. Ignoring the cries of the red-haired girl pushing towards her through the crowd, she reaches down, knowing what she’d find before her hands reached her pockets._

_The duchess’s letters had gone._

***

“I’m sorry, Kaaras.”

“Please don’t be, kadan.”

She felt Kaaras’s fingers trailing through her hair, teasing their way around her ear.

“If you’re not ready, then _we’re_ not ready. All I care is, you’re here. With me.”

She leaned into his shoulder, laying her head against his chest, closing her eyes. She always marvelled at his heartbeat. Hers must be racing right now, but his was slow, steady, like waves lapping at the shore.

His soft voice came from somewhere near her ear.

“Does this mean my debrief on the Marquis can wait, then?”

“Definitely.”

She didn’t know how long they lay there. His arms around her, head on his chest. She wouldn’t have cared, until a loud slam brought her crashing down to the ground.

“Inquisitor, word came from the Free Marches, and - oh…”

Cullen’s voice trailed off as she hopped quickly off the sofa, smoothing her dress, folding her arms behind her back and laying on her best, most studied, polite smile. 

He nodded, a redness creeping up through his cheeks. 

“My apologies, Josie. I hope I’m not intruding?”

“Oh, no. Not at all.”

There were a thousand ways to smile in The Game. There were smiles to apologise, to scheme, and to flirt. And, more importantly, smiles that said _I’m lying through my teeth for the sake of courtesy._

Another set of footsteps approached, these softer, quicker.

“Inquisitor, I - Cullen. Josie.”

“Leliana.”

Silence hung in the air. At her side, she could feel Kaaras fumbling with something in his pocket, trying to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. 

The Commander cleared his throat.

“My troops have been asking -“

Leliana cut across him, voice clipped and firm.

“Cullen, if I might have a word? I’ve had some troubling news from Halamshiral, and I must have your input…”

He cleared his throat again.

“Of course. Right away.”

With an apologetic nod, the pair left. Josie could feel Leliana’s eyes boring into her, through her.

***

“It wasn’t what it looked like, Leliana.”

Leliana had sent over a message with one of her scouts. _Latest shipment from Val Royeaux, first dibs on the trinkets,_ or some such. They both knew a pretext, but to be frank, Josephine knew that neither of them would turn up the opportunity to meet privately. Besides, she’d managed to get some wonderful candles last time.

“I’m sorry to hear that!”

Leliana smiled, elbowing her slightly in the ribs. 

“Did you want it to be?”

Josephine paused. She could feel the thoughts rushing in her head, jostling for space to breathe.

“One day. One day, but not yet.”

Around them, the voices of the Inquisition scouts and merchants hummed, like a chatter of birds. She could feel Leliana’s eyes scouring her again, and with a sigh, she let the studied smile drop.

“Perhaps this was all a mistake.”

She could feel the old feelings welling up, threatening to push through.

“He deserves someone whole, Leli. Someone _more._ Someone bold, someone who can take what he’s offering with both hands and leap. Not someone who has to look before they take each step.”

“My love, if he wanted that, he’d be sleeping with Cassandra. It’d be one way to stop her punching things, I suppose.”

“Be serious, Leli!”

She felt the laugh bubble upward, through the tears threatening to break out.

Leliana linked her arm through hers.

“I am, Josie. Walk with me.”

***

Leliana’s tower was darker than Josie remembered. The sound of ravens cawing hung in the air. As they approached, several scouts ducked out of the way, to a nod from Leliana.

Among the cages, a small splash of red caught her eye. Leliana took her hand, leading her closer. 

“Meet Aedan.”

The robin puffed up his chest at their approach, cocking one eye towards them and trilling expectantly.

“He’s beautiful, Leli.”

Leliana smiled, scooping a pinch of seed from a small bag and scattering it on the floor of the cage. Aedan hopped over, pecking up mouthfuls between chirps.

“Your Kaaras brought him here. He and Cole found him in out in the Emerald Graves, with a broken wing. Most soldiers I’ve met would have left him to die. But the Inquisitor thought he deserved a chance. From what Varric tells me, that man has developed quite the knack for digging up worms.”

Aedan peered at Josie through the bars, an inquisitive eye meeting hers. She turned, eyes finally meeting Leliana’s.

“What are you trying to tell me, Leli? That I’m a broken bird the Inquisitor has taken pity on?”

“Is Aedan broken?”

The bird fluffed his feathers up, shaking them down as if in disgust.

“You’re not a broken bird, Josie. You’re a woman who deserves to learn how to fly again. However long that takes. And believe me, Kaaras knows how lucky he is to be part of that.”

With a snap, Leliana flicked open the latch. As the cage door fell open, the bird hopped onto the edge, head twisting this way and that, watching the ravens swoop in and settle on the rafters above. For a moment, his eye met Josie’s. And then he was gone, through the window, and out into the courtyard.

“He’s a fighter.”

A single brown feather lay on the windowsill. With quick fingers, Leliana snatched it up, tucking it into Josephine’s hair.

“You both are, Josie. Never forget that.”


	6. The return to Haven

“Sweetheart? We’re here.”

Cullen gently moved a lock of hair from Evelyn’s forehead, murmuring the words into her ear. He could feel the rise and fall of her breast shift, sharper now. Her eyes fluttered open, their deep brown meeting his.

“Was I asleep long?”

“Just a short while.”

He pulled her forward, letting his lips rest against her forehead. Wanting to drink in each moment with her, in the breaths before the upcoming battle.

The trees were becoming thicker now, flashing past the window of the carriage. How many times had he walked these roads, trying to clear his mind? From the pain shooting through his temples, burning all in its path? From the pressures of war, and the burdens of mens’ lives around his neck?

Then, later, from the images that burned into his eyelids each night, left alone to his own devices. How she would look, lying at his side. Or on her back, beckoning him onwards, the same gleam of wanting in her eyes. 

He’d seen it as a curse from the Maker. A temptation, set to douse all he loved aflame. And so he’d tried to run from it. To place her on her pedestal as the holy icon she was, not the temptress his mind had created.

The thought made him cringe as it shot through his mind. Anything can be sacred. Anything can be sinful. All it takes is to close your eyes, and refuse to look at what lay beneath.

She was holy. She was a temptress. And she was the woman who looked each foot soldier in the eye, daring them to see her as their equal. She was the woman who cried over the ending of Swords and Shields, and she was the woman who threw the book at Dorian’s head when he laughed at her for it. She was the woman who stroked his hair and read him the poetry of her Circle when the migraines got too much to bear, and she was the woman whose hair he had to hold back after Bull talked her into trying Antivan whiskey.

And now his grandmother’s ring shimmered, looped on a necklace, hanging against her heart.

With a jolt, the carriage came to a stop. As the door swung open, he stepped out, with one fluid motion, reaching out to let her take his. Feeling the weight as she steadied herself against it, regaining her balance. She’d always been so graceful, before -

~

The sands had run out. Another hour, gone.

He frowned, flipping the hourglass over, as his eyes glazed over the minutes from that morning’s Exalted Council. He’d expected her to have returned by now. 

That morning, he’d taken her hand, and she’d flinched, drawing it back as though he’d burned her. Whatever magic the Anchor was drawing from, its poison was seeping further into her. He’d spent the morning in the temple, trying desperately to clear his mind, to reach out to the Maker. As though if he made himself loud enough, He would turn his gaze to his daughter aflame.

He’d been in sieges before, a thousand men standing shoulder to shoulder, breath held. That eerie silence hanging over their heads, like a sword waiting to fall. Counting each breath, each step. 

The same silence had fallen across the building. The eyes of every soldier in the room bore into the back of his neck.

And then the screaming broke the silence.

First one voice. Then another. Footsteps, doors slamming. The hourglass shattered on the cold tiles as he pushed his way through, trying to force his way through the crowd.

“Fetch a healer. NOW!”

Vivienne’s voice cut through the air, its normally honed steel ragged. 

_No. No, no, no, no._

He was shoving his way through the crowd to the stairs now. Hearing his own voice screaming her name, like through water. 

“Cullen! Someone get the Commander, tell him - oh, Maker…”

“CASSANDRA!”

Through a crack in the crowd, he saw it. For a moment.

Evelyn half supported, half carried, by Cassandra and Vivienne. Her right arm wrapped around the Seeker’s neck, the other -

He could see the blood staining Madame du Fer’s gown, crimson against white, before the crowd closed in again around him.

~

“Darling, you made it!”

Vivienne reached out, smile creasing at the corner of her eyes, taking Evelyn’s hand in both of hers.

“Wouldn’t have missed it, Viv.”

As Evelyn laughed, leaning to kiss Vivienne on both cheeks, Cullen felt the knot in his chest start to loosen.

He’d been surprised at how many of them had come back. Cassandra, the Seeker fire still burning in her eyes, staring into the remains of the Chantry as though challenging it. Varric, his face stoic, standing in the shadows with Dagna and another dwarven woman. Josie, making conversation with a masked representative of the Orlesian court. And of course, the Divine Victoria herself, red hair blazing in the sun as she stood on the steps of the rubble.

Whether this memorial service had been her idea or Evelyn’s, he didn’t know. But somehow, the seeds had grown. Too many ghosts in this place, he supposed. Too many lives cut short, stories with their pages torn out before they could be read.

~

“Let me in. Now.”

His voice rose into the back of his throat, growling, as he glared at the guard outside the healer’s room. 

“I have my orders, sir. No one is to enter. No exceptions.”

The man’s thin voice wavered, but he held firm.

“But I’m her _husband_!”

“No. Exceptions.”

He turned, shaking his head, combing his fingers through his hair. Trying to find a path through the need, and the fury, and the fear.

“I’m sure the Inquisitor will be _delighted_ to hear that, my dear.”

The voice at his back startled him, and he turned sharply. The look on Vivienne’s face could have broken the most hardened soldier.

“After all, rules _must_ be upheld. I’m sure she’ll want to commend you for ensuring her beloved isn’t there as she wakes - Jenkins, wasn’t it? I could write your commendation here and now, if you would like…”

The colour had drained from the man’s face, as he gulped like a trout lying helplessly on a dock. With a wave, he motioned Cullen through, and darted to one side.

“One moment, Commander.”

He turned, eyes meeting Vivienne’s as she straightened his furs, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

“Be strong for her, my dear. She’s fought a storm that would cut down the best of us. Be her shelter, for today.”

With a soft tap of her staff, she turned, and was gone.

~

Side by side, they climbed the remains of the steps, flowers in hand. He saw her stumble almost before she did, wrapping his arm around her waist as she reached for him with her missing hand.

“I’ve got you, Evey.”

He felt her gasp, chest rising beneath his hand sharply, and lowering with a sigh, shaking her head.

“I walked these steps so many times. It was so easy then.”

“I know.”

He raised his arm, wrapping it around her shoulders, thumb running circles across her sleeve.

They added their flowers to the small pile at the remains of the chantry door, a mass of green and red, and she took his arm as they stepped away, watching as the next group took the climb.

~

“Cullen?”

“I’m here, Evey. I’m here.”

He dragged his chair closer to the bed, taking her hand in his, raising it to his lips.

“Where am I? Where is -“

She tried to push herself upward, grimacing as the bandaged remains of her elbow touched the bedsheets.

“We are in Halamshiral, love. We’re safe. You’re safe.”

She closed her eyes, breaths deep and ragged. 

“There’s danger coming. Solas - the Dread Wolf - the Veil…”

He reached down, smoothing the hair from her forehead.

“Cassandra told me. And we’ll talk about it. But for now, you need to rest.”

“And the others? Did everyone make it out?”

He nodded, taking her hand in his.

“Cassandra’s briefing Leliana and Josie now. And Vivienne’s been giving your healers quite the earful.”

Something tickled the back of his mind. Something about _pockets_? He reached in, fingers closing on a small pouch.

“I’m guessing this is for you?”

The pouch crinkled gently as he squeezed it, filling the room with the scent of lavender.

“Cole.” 

A smile of relief washed over Evelyn’s face, as she lay back, meeting his eyes.

“You told me once your sister grows this, back home.”

“I did? Well, you’ll have to come and find out. I’ll write, as soon as you’re better.”

She lifted her hand, fingers trailing through his hair.

“What do we do now? How can I be _The Inquisitor_ without the Anchor?”

“Then don’t. Be Evelyn Trevelyan.”

~

The sun was setting over the rubble, casting a red glow over the stone. In time, their friends had taken their leave, with promises to write, or to visit. Now, Evelyn sat by his side, watching the wind catching the leaves of the nearest trees.

“We lost so many in this war.”

He drew her closer, burying his face in her hair, her neck.

“I nearly lost you. I nearly lost you, twice.”

“But we lived. After everything that happened, we made it out. You and me.”

The ghosts of the past would always cling to this place. All of what was, and what could have been, and what could never be.

But now he held his wife in his arms, as a cool evening breeze danced around them.


	7. The cookies

Any fool could bake. _And I_ , Dorian reassured himself, _am no fool._

He’d never had a sweet tooth. Most desserts back in Minrathous were silly, frivolous things, designed to look just so on a plate, rather than to have any substance to them. Rather like Minrathous itself, really. He’d have to bank that metaphor for later. See how darling Sera managed to twist that one into an innuendo.

So he’d largely ignored them as a food group. Held out his glass for more wine instead, each time the meal ended. Saved him the time and effort of combing crumbs out of his moustache, as an added bonus.

But that had been before… well, all of this. Back in the gilded cage of Tevinter, and its high-society backstabbings. Back when dinner was an event in and of itself, rather than something he grabbed a bowl of before heading back upstairs to the library.

And back before Maxwell, of course. Maker knew how that man still had teeth, with that tin of biscuits he always managed to smuggle into camp. Never lasted more than a few days, but something hard and sweet in your mouth by the fire at the end of a long day did seem to make the slog of it all easier.

He shook his head, and made a mental note not to give _that_ one to Sera.

~

Any fool could bake. But not every fool had access to the entire assembled library of the Inquisition.

They’d been back for a week now. He’d seen the scouts rushing up and down the tower staircase, which usually resulted in someone getting dragged somewhere unpleasant. Time to prepare. Gather up his clean laundry, and enough reading material to make the journey tolerable. 

Time to hope beyond all else, that he would be coming. He’d faced the days like that before. When Maxwell had taken Cassandra to face the Lord Seeker, and he’d spent five days on the watchtowers like some sodding Mabari pup, breath held in the space between heartbeats. He’d not realised then how much of his heart he’d given away, not until the remaining pieces had to beat without them.

And that was when “Mistress Beechstone’s Guide to Free Marcher Cuisine” had fallen into his lap. Quite literally, in fact. He’d given it a quick flip-through, as much out of curiosity as anything - really, what these people would not do with potatoes, his grandmother would have a fit - but one drawing caught his eye. A sort of sturdy cake, fruit dotting the surface and centre. 

He ran one finger down the list of ingredients, a plan beginning to form.

He would conquer this Marcher cuisine, and, hopefully, the man with it.

~

Any fool could bake. And not every fool had a fully-equipped kitchen, designed to feed an entire castle.

He’d ushered away a scullery maid with a wave of his hand, commandeered a long bench, and laid the book open on his handkerchief, much as a scholar would lay his grand work on a lectern. There was much work to do.

_Flour. Eggs. Sugar. Butter._

He rummaged through the pantry, grabbing bags, sniffing them, carting them back to the bench, before rolling up his sleeves, and pinning them into place, before trailing one finger down the list of instructions.

_Weigh out one hundred and fifty grams self-raising flour._

Well. This was going to be interesting. He thought back to his times wandering the markets in Minrathous. One hundred and fifty grams…. about two apples. He grabbed a nearby bowl, tipping flour in, lifting it occasionally until it felt about right. Soon, bowls of sugar and butter sat nearby.

_Add butter, rubbing in._

_Maker, please tell me Sera’s not got to this book._ He retraced his finger over the passage, thinking. He just needed to break up the butter enough that it could melt though once it cooked. He pulled his trusty penknife out of his belt, slicing the butter into chunks, stirring it in with the sugar and flour. It was a mess, but it’d look better once the heat had melted it.

_Mix in one egg._

He glanced around. No eggs around, by the looks of things. He’d need something else runny, he supposed, to glue it all together. One of the maids was preparing cups of tea, setting them out on a tray with cups of milk.

“Would you mind terribly if I took this?” He gestured at one of the cups.

“Of course not, messir… are you _sure_ you don’t need any help?”

The woman folded her arms, glancing up and down at the thin film of flour coating his trousers.

“Not to worry, dear lady.” He flashed her his most winning smile. “I have the situation quite in hand.”

She sniffed, turning back to her trays.

_Add fruit, stirring to combine._

Now, this he had planned for. Some months ago, he’d talked Josephine into bringing him a supply of dates from Val Royeaux. He pulled the small bag containing the last of them from his pocket, slicing them finely with his penknife before wiping it clean with another handkerchief. 

_Bake for around thirty minutes._

He stared at the stone crevice in the wall he supposed must be the oven, glancing around for sigils, runes, some form of magical heat generation, cursing as he found only rock.

Well, at least this was an area he could provide some expertise in.

He gathered a few handfuls of his mix, rolling it in his hands to form balls, wiping the bottom of the oven with his handkerchief and placing them gently down. 

And now for the fun part. He took his staff in his hands, closed his eyes. Cleared his thoughts. Let his mind connect with the Fade. 

The stream of fire landed precisely where he’d planned, of course. As he watched, it arced over the balls, skimming an inch or so away. Their dough turning from pale white, to golden brown, to -

“SHIT!”

Flames sprung out within the balls, twisting, the golden brown suddenly a mix of ash and yellow fire. He dropped the staff, grabbing a teapot from one of the trays and flinging its contents over the inferno within the oven.

“Dorian, is everything alright?”

Maxwell. Dorian’s heart sank as he turned, meeting the man’s warm brown eyes.

“I’ll admit, Amatus… things aren’t exactly going as I’d hoped. It was supposed to be a surprise, you see.”

He leaned forward, taking Maxwell’s hands in his, thumbs circling the backs of his palm. 

“I just hope you aren’t too disappointed.”

“Oh, Dor…”

A wicked grin spread across Maxwell’s face as he dipped one long finger into the sad white batter, dabbing it gently on Dorian’s nose.

“Only that you started without me…”

~

They took the first batch out onto the roof while the final buns cooled, the scent of warm crumbs mingling with the cool evening air. How that man had managed to rescue that horrendous mixture, Dorian had no idea.

“You know what?”

Maxwell turned, grinning as he brushed the crumbs off the corner of his mouth.

“Dates in scones? Genius. Never thought of that one before. Make a baker of you yet, I reckon.”

He leaned back, taking Dorian in his arms, head resting back against the window to the tavern, one of the bard’s songs drifting through the air.

“How long do you think we can stay out here before Cassandra yells at us to get down, do you reckon?”

Dorian snorted. “Cassandra in all her fury? You’d be a fool to take her on, Amatus.”

“Maybe.”

Maxwell leaned in, lips meeting his.

“Just as long as I’m your fool.”


End file.
